


The Snow King

by macgyvershe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Fantasy AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, NOT SHERLOCK OR JOHN, Slow Burn, no explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: A fantasy of frozen proportions. Sherlock is the Snow King. A man of unbelievable beauty, pursued by male as well as female suitors. Yet his heart is frozen and his sharp wit and even sharper tongue drive his suitors away. The Magpie King wants to possess Sherlock. Moriarty is not a good person.Enter one John Watson. Warrior, healer, and champion of the Snow King.





	1. The Snow Kings Frozen Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story has taken a dark turn. Please check out the tags for warnings and do not read if you find triggery items ahead. Safe reading. Hope you enjoy this story. Reginald thanks you for your support. >:o)

The Winter King, Mycroft Holmes, rules Londinium. Londinium is a large city state that is bound by winter. The snow is always falling and the ice never melts. Its people are hardy and hot blooded. The city state is surrounded by an enchanted forest. The trees grow at astonishing rates. No matter how many trees are harvested, the forest grows thick with new growth. Though the weather is difficulty; Londinium’s people are masters of wood harvesting and working. Exporting their goods, they live comfortably on the fruits of their labor.

Mycroft is indifferent to the people of Londinium. He is a statesman, interested in the interactions with other sovereign city states within the continent. His brother is another matter. 

The Snow King, Sherlock Holmes, brother to the Mycroft, doesn’t rule over any lands. His interests lie elsewhere. It is said that his heart is ice. His mind a cold, logical device that is impenetrable. A heart unyielding to the whims of human love. His beauty is a thing of legend. For men as well as women have vied for his affections. All suitors are turned away by pale ice blue eyes and a sharp tongue that cuts deeper than any man made blade. 

Londinium bustles with commerce. Buyers came to buy. Many came to visit the enchanted forest and even more come to get a glimpse the of the redoubtable Snow King. Whose beauty enthralls, while his venomous tongue and attitude cause all who seek him out to flee for their very lives and sanity.

(-_-)

It is near dusk as Sherlock is out riding his favorite reindeer, when he spots a camp site in the distance. The smell of blood is in the air. The camp fire is burning unattended. Sherlock’s curiosity is piqued. He approaches boldly, even as his reindeer balks at the blood smell in the air.

Dismounting, he trails the rein deer’s leads on the ground. Knowing that Reginald has been trained to stay close until he picks up the reins again. Sherlock examines the camp site. There has been a struggle. Though there are no persons present; living or dead.

Suddenly, a knife flies out of no where and pins Reginald’s leads to the ground. The animal shrieks and attempts to flee, but the knife holds his reins tight. Sherlock turns in the direction the knife was flung from. Only to be set upon by a man of unknown origin. Knocked to the ground and expertly pinned in place Sherlock looks into the midnight blue eyes of a Gaelic warrior. 

Eyes wide Sherlock sees that this warrior has been beset by thieves. That he had prevailed over more than one individual, been wounded in the process and is now concerned that Sherlock is another of the thieves seeking to do him harm.

“Crann taca. (champion, friend).” Sherlock says in his rich baritone voice.

The warrior relaxes at these words. A wry smile ghosts across the warriors lips. Is there something beguiling within his midnight blue eyes?

His tight hold on Sherlock turns tender.

“Tá mé do curadh (I am your champion).” The warrior says as he collapses onto Sherlock. 

His shoulder wound has bled severely staining his clothing. Sherlock wonders how he has been able to preform at all. Carrying the fallen warrior back to his camp site, he is startled to find the warrior heavy with muscle which was not originally evident. The camp is well organized and completely untouched. 

“You are a warrior of great ability.” Sherlock is impressed. Not an easy proposition as the Snow King is never affected by people; finding them boring and/or irritating beyond words. This warrior though, this warrior is so beyond the boundaries of boring. 

Tethering Reginald close to camp, Sherlock tends to the warrior’s wound. He debates whether to break camp and head to the confines of the Crystal Fortress or to spend the night at the camp to allow the warrior to stabilize?

As he looks to the contents of the warriors carry-all in search of items to clean the wound, he is astonished to find a well stocked portable apothecary. This warrior is also a healer. Curiouser and curiouser. When he opens the warriors shirt, he finds the scars of multiple serious wounds. Interesting. Setting upon the task at hand, he cleans and protects the wound by covering it. 

Blood splatter on the warrior’s face attracts his attention and he wipes it clean. The warrior is tanned with flaxen hair. He is not too much older than Sherlock. Yet there is a gravity to his unconscious face. Lines of history and not age mark his countenance. Here is a man who has seen much and endured more than most mortals.

Sherlock decides to break camp. Reginald is strong and can carry the warrior and the camp gear will be pulled along on a travois that the warrior used. Sherlock will walk along side; Reginald is used to his long stride. They will be near to the Fortress as the moon rises.

(-_-)

The warrior is draped across Reginald’s neck as he is seated in Sherlock’s saddle. At a quick pace Sherlock holds the smaller man in place easily. All the while Sherlock keeps his senses open. Thieves and villains may be abroad this night.

The warrior begins to stir. From an unconscious state to full awareness, he grabs Reginald’s reins pulling the animal to a stop.

Sherlock can see the warrior’s brain access his current situation and come to the conclusion that there is no threat.

“Felicitations, my champion.” Sherlock says warmly. Why is he being warm? “My name is Sherlock.”

“I am John Watson.” The warrior posits. “You came after. I remember you spoke my language.” 

“Yes. Languages are a hobby of mine.”

“Where are we headed, Sherlock?”

“The Crystal Fortress. There you can receive further medical care. Find rest and recuperation until you feel well enough to resume you journey.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” John reaches to hold his wound. “I hope it is not far. I don’t think I have a great deal of energy left.”

Sherlock swings up behind John and urges Reginald on. “Apples, Reginald, home.” Sherlock knows that his reindeer can manage the extra weight for the brief time it would take to get them to the Fortress.

(-_-)

Once at the Fortress, Sherlock can see John’s waning strength and takes charge of his care; having him moved into rooms adjoining his. 

Helping John into sleeping clothes, he then turns his attention to the wound using his own apothecary.

“I will give you something for the pain, so that I can clean the wound out properly.” 

“I prefer that you give me a light dose that will not impede my mental state thank you.”

Sherlock acquiesces and begins his task. He is impressed by John’s ability to withstand fairly high levels of pain. At the end of the cleansing, he applies fresh bandages. 

“Thanks. I appreciate your abilities. Are you a healer?”

“Generally, my patients are already dead.” Sherlock smirks. 

“You are an anatomist then?” John perks up as he sees Sherlock in a new light. 

“Guilty.” Sherlock turns at soft knock on John’s door. A young man stands holding a tray of food. “Come.” Sherlock gestures to the young person to come in. 

“You should eat something; replenish your body.” Sherlock wants to stay, but doesn’t know if that would be an imposition.

John pulls the bowl of stew closer. Then stops. “Please stay and keep me company. You’ve saved my life this evening. We can talk of science and how it changes our perception of the world.”

Sherlock orders several mugs of warm mead and sets about enjoying the evening with John Watson.

(-_-)

In the night, Sherlock is busy with an experiment when he hears sounds from John’s room. He enters quietly and sees something he had feared.

John is obviously in the throes of a fever. “Infection.” Sherlock is distraught. The cleansing didn’t eradicate all the noxious particles that cause disease. 

Abandoning his experiment, he takes up residence in John’s room to help him through the fever. Pulling the bandages aside he sniffs the wound. The scent is mildly offensive. Calling for a tepid bath he sets about preparing John to enter that bath. Removing his clothing, he admires John’s strong musculature. His manhood as well as his overall body type. 

“Hello, lovely.” John says with a bright smile upon his lips. “What are we doing?”

John is only partially aware of what is transpiring.

“We are getting you into this tepid bath to help reduce your fever and soak your wound.” 

“You are admirable in your pursuit. Will you be joining me in the bath. I think I’d really like that.” John tugs weakly on Sherlock shirt. “You look very good in your royal purple shirt.” He is going in and out of reality.

“I’m sure we can work things out to your satisfaction.” Sherlock advises him. Helping John into the tub he carefully sponges the wound over and over again as John settles in, splashing in the water. 

“There is a vial...my pack...tincture of healing. tea...30 drops.

(-_-)

Dosing John with his tincture. Sherlock helps John dry off and return to his bed.

John touches Sherlock tenderly. He appears to be more alert now. “You are such a beauty, my dear. I wish I were not so indisposed. I would love to teach you the many languages of love.” The light in John’s dark blue eyes is honest and true. 

Sherlock feels conflicted. This man is ill and not in his right mind. Yet there is a connection here that he has, frankly, never felt before. This strong, gentle man is warrior, healer, and knew of anatomists; of science. John was SO not boring. He was someone Sherlock wanted to know better. 

Slowly sleep overcomes John. Sherlock sits next to him, holding his smaller hand in his. Covering John with a thick blanket, he lays down for just a moment. He will stay with John to make sure that he will be okay throughout the night, of course. 

(-_-)

Sherlock wakes slowly. Surrounded by warmth, he opens his eyes to find John looking into his eyes. 

“Morning, bright eyes.” John smiles broadly.

Blinking Sherlock doesn’t move away from John’s embrace. They share John’s bed. The blanket drawn across both of them. 

“I wanted to make sure you were all right through the night hours.” Sherlock stammers. “I see that you are much better. That tincture of yours is quite efficient.”

Drawing Sherlock closer into a reassuring hug. John knows that Sherlock can feel his arousal.  
“I’m glad for your protection in my time of need.” Gently, he releases the younger man, the smile on his thin lips is genuine and loving. 

Sherlock, eyes wide, looks at John in surprise and confusion. There is no demanding or coaxing in John’s demeanor. Even in his high fever, he was only ever loving and gentle. Sherlock has never experienced this type of behavior. People generally wanted to possess and own him. To capture and control him. 

“Do not let me keep you from your duties. I know I have taken you from your life for several days. I will rest, hoping that I will see you again later tonight.”

John pulls the blanket back so Sherlock can exit his bed. The cool air touches Sherlock’s warm skin and he finds a small shiver run through him. It is not the coolness that affects him, something more intimate shakes his soul.

“I will send someone to start a fire in your hearth and bring you food. I will be back as soon as I assign some tasks to others. I will tend to your needs thereafter; we must speak more of your tincture and other matters.”

Sherlock settles the warm blanket back over John. Then softly brushes his flaxen hair away from John’s face. How has this absolute stranger come into his life and turned it upside down. Sherlock knows not why or how. He only knows that he has never met anyone like John Watson and nothing and no one will keep him from this man’s side.

(-_-)

“Mycroft, just what the hell do you think you are at?” Sherlock is livid. His brother is being a dick of the highest order.

“What is your problem, Sherlock? In the past you’ve been delighted to attend these masquerade balls. Delighting in skewering the dignitaries that attend in the order of their royal ranking. Many come just to see the dressing down that you are capable of applying to so very many with so few words.” 

Sherlock takes a deep cleansing breath and stares into the face of his infuriating brother. There is malice aforethought in his ice blue eyes.

“Don’t tell me you are still engaged with that solider fellow that you found?”

“His name is John Watson and yes I’m totally engaged with him. He is a man of science, an inventor of medicines that actually work on actual illnesses. There is much to be gained from having a man of his wisdom and knowledge here at Crystal Fortress. I am endeavoring to make him see that his place is here with us.”

“Here with you, I think. I’ve never seen you so enthralled by another human being. He must be something very special.”

“Someone. He is someone very special.” Sherlock demands. 

“Well then, place him in the best costume we can supply and bring him to the ball. He can be your DATE.” Mycroft places special emphasis on that last word and takes his leave from the room. Leaving Sherlock to fume alone.

(-_-)

“Our costume designers are some of the finest in all the land.” Sherlock says proudly. 

“This is a special occasion that happens quite frequently, then?” John inquires.

“Too frequently for my tastes. It amuses many who come for the spectacle or to witness the efficacy of my razor sharp wit.”

“Well, your designers spent most of a morning measuring me. So I guess I’m committed to the spectacle and the wit.”

John’s smile warms Sherlock heart. Though there is definitely a thing between them, John never presses or seeks to bring Sherlock closer than he wants to be. And that makes Sherlock want to seek him out. Where others always pursued him, John is a steadfast presence that exudes patience and love.

(-_-)

On the night of the ball, their costumes are brought into John’s rooms. John is to be a magnificent Golden Sun and Sherlock a Silver Black Moon. The costumes are breath taking. The masks covering only the top portion of their faces. Donning their costumes, Sherlock leads John into the main ball room.

John has grown stronger with the excellent care that Sherlock has provided. Never questioning the lavishness of the Crystal Fortress. He accepts what is offered and gives freely of his time and talents. Teaching Sherlock what he knows of the healing arts, anatomy and as his strength returns; the art of combat. He excels at sword play, archery and a scientific contraption called a flintlock. A weapon of unparalleled killing capacity which John wields with deadly accuracy.

The huge room is the size of a large meadow, with extravagantly large chandelier suspended throughout the ceiling. Hundreds of candles are lit in each chandelier. Tall narrow windows in the upper reaches of the room allowing the night air to enter keeping the crowds of people below in comfort. 

“Impressive.” John says as he stays close to Sherlock who navigates the room to stand at the podium in the far corner of the great hall.

Surrounding Mycroft, who is dressed as a wizard of children’s tales, are the aristocracy of the local city states. Among them the Magpie King. His ingenious costume has a cloak derived of large man made feathers; iridescent, black and as beautiful, sinister and shiny as the man beneath the finely tailored clothing. The small crown on his head is set at a jaunty angle. His smile has nothing to do with humor.

“Ah, Maestro Sherlock, so thrilling to see you so splendidly arrayed. And in the company of another celestial persona. How enchanting that you honor us with your gorgeous presence.”

Sherlock gives an exasperated exhalation of breath as he can see John tense at his side. “Moriarty. Mycroft, brother dear, why haven’t you provided the prerequisite new born kittens for our flighty friend to devour at a moments notice?”

There is a murmur of astonishment from those within earshot of Sherlock’s comment. Everyone knows there is no love lost between the two verbal combatants.

“Sherlock, maybe you can introduce me to your acquaintance?” John says coming in between Sherlock and the dark stranger who definitely rubs Sherlock the wrong way.

“John Watson, let me introduce the head without a heart of the city state of Éire, James Moriarty, which lies to the west of Londinium. A man who claims royal status, but who’s crown is more a purchase than a true inheritance.”

John steps forward and extends his hand. Moriarty who is as short as John, grips his hand. Sherlock can see that John is exerting all his strength into the handshake. John’s face is a mask of politeness, which belies the obvious painful grip he has Moriarty in. Finally relinquishing Moriarty’s hand, Sherlock can see that hand is nearly white from lack of blood flow.

“John has chosen to take up residence here at the Crystal Fortress.” Sherlock announces.

“Have I?” John turns with a slight tilt of his head and a broad smile toward Sherlock.

“Of course you have.” Sherlock confirms. Placing his arm around John; tugging him close. “This is where you truly belong. Come John, we need to dance the night away.”

Eyebrows everywhere, raise to the ceiling. Sherlock Holmes acquiescing to dance with anyone? Had the world stopped turning? Had someone replaced the real Sherlock with a imposter?

(-_-)

John and Sherlock were laughing, giggling and hanging on each other as they make their way to Sherlock’s wing of the Fortress. Dancing, dining, and generally trying not to make fools of themselves has proven to be an exhausting venture.

John separates himself from Sherlock gently. “I need to get some sleep. Got to get up early today and start looking for somewhere to stay. See if there is need for a healer in your fair city.”

Sherlock is gobsmacked. “John, you will stay here in the Fortress. There is always need for proper healers. You will not lack for patients if you chose that path, but consider becoming my assistant. I know we will work well together. You will want for nothing here.”

“Your generosity had been unequaled. I can not continue to be a drain on your resources.” John reachs out to place his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I don’t want you to leave...my side.” Sherlock’s voice is pleading. “I’ll find you work within the Fortress. You can teach healing, train our soldiers, work in our apothecary. Any one of a number of positions here. I am the Snow King, nothing is beyond my capacity to provide.” 

“That is the problem.” John begins. “I am already seen as your paramour. I heard the not so quiet whispers last night.”

“Damn the rumors. I care not what people think of me.” Sherlock pulled John close. Their faces just a kiss away from each other.

“That’s one thing I like about you.” John nudges his fore head against Sherlock’s. 

The tension in Sherlock eases. “Then you will stay in your rooms here at the Fortress? To hell with the members of this state. Let them approach me if they have difficulties with our situation. I will openly make life a living hell for anyone who dares reproach you.”

John laughs outright. “I never thought my life would be saved by the legendary Snow King. That I would live cheek to jowl by his side. Now, I find a place in his notoriously frozen heart.”

Sherlock brushes his fingers through John’s flaxen hair and knows that this unassuming strong, brave man has slipped unnoticed through the thorny walls that surround his heart. 

“I never thought I would find someone who makes me a better man.” Sherlock looks so young and inexperienced with these types of emotions.

John pulls Sherlock down so that he can place a chaste kiss upon his cheek. “I’ll see you when you wake.” John whispers and turns to enter his own room.

Sherlock stands looking at John’s closed door. He wants to follow him. He is confused. His heart is in turmoil. His brain is buzzing with thoughts. Happy that John is staying. John has become his happiness. Science, experiments and research were the only things that gave him pleasure in the past.

Moving to his door, he enters his rooms. Closing it and leaning against its smooth surface. What does he want? His heart, his body? His mind? Every part of him screams...John Watson.

(-_-)

Sherlock spends most of his night contemplating John, only succumbing to sleep in the early morning hours. A rap at his door interrupts Sherlock’s short sleep cycle. Quietly, someone enters his room. He turns with venom on his mind. Who dares to disturb his morning? There, standing in his travel clothes, John Watson enters carrying a tray of food for two. 

“John, what are you doing?”

“Bringing breakfast, some hot tea. We have much to do today and I thought an early foray into the tasks at hand would be admirable.”

John brings the tray to Sherlock’s desk and pulls two comfortable chairs up close. His whimsical smile is endearing and Sherlock forgets his distemper immediately.

“There are others who can perform these tasks.” Sherlock tells John straight faced.

“They, rightfully so, were too afraid to interrupt your sleep. And none of them can lift your spirits as I can. I saw the beginnings of your frosty temperature just now, until you saw that it was I who walked through your door.”

Sherlock raises from his bed, slips on a robe and sits at the tabled breakfast John has made.

“I’m not really a ‘breakfast’ person.” Sherlock states with concern. Will John endeavor to make him a go against his normal habits?

John sits, pours their tea and begins munching from his plate with no further comment.

“What is it that we have to do today?” Sherlock sips his tea and twiddles with an aromatic piece of warm bread. John has made an effort so Sherlock takes one small bite of the crusty bread. Which, some how tastes so much better today. 

“It’s the company you keep.” John say between bites of breakfast. “It makes all the difference in the world, don’t you think?” 

John’s radiant smile warms Sherlock heart. Did he have a heart?

(-_-)

Walking from the main hall towards Sherlock’s wing of the Fortress.

“I’ve been talking to your apothecary Mr. Simms. Nice chap. You are severely understaffed. You really need more doctors for a city state this big. I discussed some ideas on modernizing and expanding your medical facilities. I’ve done this sort of thing in other city states. I’ve got letters of recommendation that I’m sure your brother will be impressed by.” 

Sherlock is astonished, yet again. This John Watson is not only going to be a great companion/assistant, but it seems he will be a welcomed addition to Londinium at large for his vast experience and knowledge.

“So you have traveled extensively?” Sherlock’s interest is piqued. 

“Yes, traveling, learning, teaching. Earning my way as I go.”

“You’ve never settled down anywhere?” Will John leave him once he’s worked his magic?

“There’s never been anything, anyone, to keep me from moving on. Until this moment in time.”

John looks up into Sherlock’s ice blue eyes. Sherlock can see that same look upon his face as when he said that he was Sherlock’s champion, that first evening they met. So did it all happen there and then? This merging and melting of Sherlock’s frozen heart? 

Sherlock reaches again to touch John’s soft flaxen hair.

“I should get my hair cut.” John offers.

“No. Don’t do that. I. I like it this way.” Sherlock plays with the long strands of hair. Caressing the head the hair belongs to.

“I do hope you will let Londinium be your home. There is much to offer you here. My brother will pay handsomely for your assistance. I’ve been after him to put more time into the general administration of the medical facilities. Now, together we can make this a better place for all the people.”

“Together sounds good to me.”

(-_-)

There was a great deal of consternation about this ‘John Watson’ person? Who was he and why was the Snow King aligning with him so intensely? Then it was noted that major ‘good’ changes were happening. Medical services and service networks were expanded and enhanced. People who had long lived with the bare minimal medical assistance now had access to doctors and apothecaries available when needed. Hospices were built and staffed. Care became available for long term and intensive medical care. John Watson it seems was the man behind this night and day change. Everyone was thrilled and even Mycroft was favorably impressed at how organized and cost effective John Watson was. People were so impressed that they came together to celebrate the man who brought ‘modern’ health care to Londinium.

(-_-)

John was in his rooms after the festivities, freshening up and preparing for a dinner date with Sherlock when his door was banged open. Mycroft stood in the doorway looking totally distraught. 

“John, I’m...what do we do?” He walked into John’s room and sat dejectedly on one of John’s stuffed chairs.

John filled a cup with water and brought it to Mycroft. “What’s taken place?” 

Numbly, Mycroft took the proffered cup, looking directly into John’s eyes.

“It’s Moriarty, John. He’s taken Sherlock.”


	2. Begger at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Lestrade and John take charge. Moriarty and Moran begin to spin their spider's web of intrigue. Sherlock is powerless to help.

John places his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Squeezing it with a knowing strength.

“Tell me what has transpired?”

“Sherlock went out with an exploratory survey party which was looking for a site to erect a new medical facility in the far north of Londinium. He had an entourage of nine surveyors with seven Fortress guards. They were set upon by Moriarty’s people. The survivors tell of a horrific fight in which all the guards were killed and Sherlock was taken. This was entrusted to one of the surveyors to be brought to us.” Mycroft held up a mangled, blood stained parchment.

John quietly takes the parchment as Mycroft leans his elbows on his knees; holding his head in his large hands.

[Hello, John. Have I got your attention? I hope you can bolster Mycroft up. I’m sure he will be overwrought about his baby brother. He feigns distance and disdain about his familial ties, but I know Sherlock means a great deal to him. As I’m sure he means to you.

Now you might think that I’m holding him for ransom, but that is so far from the truth. Actually, I’m quite interested in annexing Londinium for fun and profit. It will become apart of Éire. I have great plans for everyone there. When you work for the Magpie King, you work for the best.

Just a small aside, if any attempt is made to retrieve Sherlock, he will suffer the consequences. I’m sure you can surmise my proclivities. I’m not someone you want to cross. You can visit Éire’s graveyards, they are full of my friends as well as my enemies. Ta for now. I’ll be in touch with my future plans for Londinium.]

Mycroft looks up at John. There is a set to John’s jaw and his midnight blue eyes are almost black with an undefinable emotion.

“Mycroft, have riders take this news throughout the land. We must let the people of Londinium know what has befallen Sherlock; what Moriarty proposes. Lastly we have to come up with a plan to defeat this madman.”

Mycroft looks bewildered. “John, we are not a war-like people. How will we ever defeat a man with a trained army?”

John crushes the parchment in his hand. “I’ve been many things to many people. I promised Sherlock I would be his champion. I am a man of my word. I will rally the people of Londinium. We will join forces to free Sherlock. 

This elicits a weak smile from Mycroft. John may be Sherlock’s only hope.

(-_-)

Sherlock wakes to find himself in a small cell. He remembers now. They were ambushed by Moriarty’s men. The battle was fierce, but they were out numbered and there was little hope of victory. Many of his people were killed and he had been taken. Ransom was not the issue. Moriarty was wealthy beyond measure. He wanted for nothing. Why take Sherlock? He wants something from Mycroft or Londinium. Maybe he wants Londinium? The Enchanted forest, the people who care for and harvested her timbers; fashioning art and utilitarian items. That was it. Moriarty wanted to expand his borders. Taking charge of the wealth of Londinium, enslaving her people for his own devilish determinations.

John! John must be worried sick. Mycroft would either breakdown or stand up to Moriarty. It could go either way. Sherlock is wracking his brain for answers to his problem. He has to escape. John would rally the people; attempt a rescue, many would die. Londinium had never had to defend itself against an enemy like Moriarty. This did not bode well for all the city states of the continent. 

Sherlock stood, examining the small cell he was enclosed in. He heard the approach of men from down the extended hall to his right.

The door was unlocked and several large men entered, followed by a tall, blonde man and finally, Moriarty.

“Bring him to his knees, if you will.” The blonde man spoke. His voice bland, almost bored.

The heavies grabbed Sherlock by his arms and forced him down to his knees before Moriarty.

“Not so grandiose, now, are we?” Moriarty looms over Sherlock. Grabbing his thick dark hair he yanks his head back. “This is how I always saw you, Sherlock. Put the collar on him, Bastian.” Moriarty relinquishes Sherlock’s hair. Stepping away from his prisoner.

The tall blonde comes forward with a heavy leather collar. 

Sherlock struggles but held fast he can not forestall the inevitable. The collar is locked around his neck. It is a tight, slightly uncomfortable fit. 

“No toxic words from the wordsmith? I thought it would be impossible to quiet the great Sherlock Holmes.” Moriarty smiles a broad satisfied smirk that curls his lips in an inhuman, threatening way.

“You have the upper hand, I concede. This isn’t over yet. Clearly, you have no idea who you are dealing with.” Sherlock stares into the malevolent eyes of James Moriarty. “John Watson is coming for you.”

“Oh, you mean your little soldier friend? Really, Sherlock. He barely makes a shadow on the ground.” Moriarty laughs and his bully boys join in. Bastian seems too underwhelmed to care.

Moriarty nods and his men slam Sherlock into the back of the cell. Sherlock rolls back up onto his knees and then stands.

“You have no idea what you are doing, Moriarty. The people of Londinium are much stronger and more resilient than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a bit, can’t I Bastian?” Jim turns to his obviously intimate partner. Hanging on the broad shoulder of the comely blonde.

“Have a great evening, Sherlock. When your little soldier friend comes a knocking, I’ll make sure that he’s put in an adjoining cell.”

Moriarty and his entourage exit his cell. Sherlock is left alone, his mind careens into motion. What can he do from his end to help John and the people of Londinium?

(-_-)

Moriarty adjourns to his suites with Bastian Moran at his side. 

“I want you to send spies into Londinium, Bastian. I’m committed now and I want to know everything that is happening there and what this John Watson is capable of.”

“Would you like me to terminate him? I have slipped in and out of Londinium on several occasions. It would solve your problem at the root.”

“Oh, Bastian. What would I ever do without you?” 

“Find someone else as deadly and handsome.” Bastian straight faces his reply.

“Right you are dear. Off with you then. Bring our little Johnny back in teensy weensy pieces.”

“As you desire, my lord Magpie.” Bastian gives a mock salute and leaves the room.

“Well that was easier than I thought it would be.” Moriarty says to himself.

(-_-)

Bastian assembles his small group of trusted underlings. They were an odd group, but he’d used them in many instances before and the intelligence they procured proved invaluable. 

“Infiltrate Londinium, gather all information about plans to rescue the Snow King. Plus I need everything there is to know concerning John Watson; what his strengths and weaknesses are and I want to know now.”

Setting his people to their task, he turns to his own assignment. Though he is beautiful in his own right, intelligent beyond most of his peers, there is a dark, deceptive portion of his soul that is a consummate deceiver. An actor of unequaled talent. He clothes himself in beggar's rags, getting a ride with one of his spies into the heart of Londinium. He comes down off the peddlers wagon, his body twisted, leaning on a twisted staff, he is outwardly a dusty, beggar. Slowly, silently and invisibly, he creeps around in the shadows. Looking to find a way into the Crystal Fortress. He may not need the information about Watson if he kills him first. Killing will be the easy part of the next few days. Murder is a specialty of Bastian’s. He excels at the spilling of blood, at the taking of life, at pleasing his lord Moriarty. Dealing death satisfies some dark portion of his inner beast.

Bastian slips from shadow to shadow. Listening and learning. Feeding the poor and homeless was always something that was done at the west end of the Fortress. Since Watson had taken up residence there was better organization and distribution. Bastian made his way to the western site. Beneath his rags he wears a short blade that had been soaked in a swift poison. There was no known antidote. He fingers the hilt of the knife as he waits in line for a hand out of food.

{This is all too easy.} He thinks. As he shuffles through the line, he keeps his eyes moving, taking in all the points of entry that are possible. He moves into an open door that is crowded with boxes of food. Once in, he sheds his rags and stands tall. Shaking out his long, blonde hair, he strides into the interior as if he truly belongs there. Passing others, he acknowledges them with a brief nod of his head. Bastian knows where he was going; there was always a map of the interior of the Fortress at Moriarty’s disposal. Higher and higher, through the lower guards; past chambermaids and pages, children and teachers. Bastian smiles and strides boldly into Sherlock’s wing of the Fortress.

(-_-)

Commander Lestrade stood side by side with John Watson as they looked over a huge table laid out with maps. He liked this man immediately. His hand shake was firm. He looked you in the eyes when he spoke and his words were wise and succinct.

As commander of the Fortress High Guards, Lestrade easily understood and liked this former military captain who Mycroft approved of to give input into the strategy to return Sherlock.

“I feel that your ideas have great merit, John. I would greatly appreciate if you could assist me when we explain our plans to the people of Londinium?”

John was quick to feel welcomed, when Lestrade said ‘our’ plans.

“I would feel quite honored to assist you in this meeting, Greg.” John took a deep breath and ran his hands down his face. Rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension there. 

“We can continue this in the morning if you’d like?” Greg inquired.

“Maybe that would be best. I’ve not had a great deal of rest recently.”

“Let me order you a late repast. I will set the smaller side plans in motion tonight. I’ve set up the men and supplies that they will need. Rest and we will both be more productive in the morning.” Greg clapped John’s shoulder. Most people were aware that something had transpired between John and Sherlock. Yet, no one had the temerity to ask John. Some secrets would flower when they were meant to.

“Thanks, Greg. I’m going to my chamber.”

(-_-)

John is tired; more than that he is stressed. Sherlock, he could admit it to himself, HIS Sherlock is being held hostage by the Magpie King. The heartless, ruthless, despicable, degenerate piece of walking shite that was Moriarty had Sherlock. His mind whirled around the terrible things that might befall Sherlock at any given moment. They did have a plan of action in place. The people of Londinium were fired up. The odds were going to be balanced by the military experiences and knowledge John brought to bare. He was confident that Moriarty will be captured and crushed, but will it be in time to prevent harm to Sherlock?

Heartsick, John paces his room. Through his slightly open door he sees a figure standing outside Sherlock’s room.

“Can I help you?” He says as he approaches the tall, blonde man.


	3. The Best Man with the Best Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is a devious reptile bent on taking what he wants. John is aS BAMF as BAMF gets. Sherlock is in terrible danger and everything and everyone depends on the man with the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I practice Tai Chi and the move that John makes to thwart his enemy is easily accomplished with the proper training.

Sherlock sat in the straw at the back of his cell. It is the only luxury item there beside his privy bucket. The food and water provided will not keep the cell rats in good health. None of that mattered, not now. All that mattered is that he keep his head. Moriarty is on a campaign of intimidation. He’d ordered Sherlock’s dark, curly hair shorn. Chopped off by use of a dull knife. The hair was now hideous, down to the scalp in areas, sticking out in ragged tufts everywhere else.

“My word, Sherlock, you look absolutely wretched.” Moriarty tsk – tsked his disapproval. All the while smiling like the predator he was.

Next he had Sherlock’s riding leathers removed and had dirty, mangled clothing thrown at him. The rough cloth was barely warm enough in the damp cell. Cold, hungry and shorn like a helpless sheep, Sherlock still held himself with pride; with nothing to say.

Though Moriarty taunted him monstrously and at some length, Sherlock was not cowed nor forthcoming in reply.

(-_-)

Sherlock entered his Mind Palace. Here there was warmth and comfort and most importantly John. The Mind Palace had once been a vaulted ceiling structure, cold and logical, packed floor to rafters with books, experiments and facts… Now, now it was a cozy set of rooms that adjoined each other and John inhabited those rooms. A soldier/healer, that thought fondly of Sherlock. That in itself was balm to Sherlock’s psyche. 

He remembered taking care of John. Looking at him in various stages of nudity. Helping him into a tepid bath to bring down his fever. The easy, flirtatious demeanor that John exhibited, brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips. John is so tantalizingly interesting, such a puzzlement. A puzzle that Sherlock would be happy to solve. Had anything or anyone ever made him so pleasurably happy? What would it be like to touch him in other ways? To know him in intimate and carnal ways?

Sherlock shivered, not with cold, but with anticipation. He knew beyond knowing that John would come for him. That the tiny spark between them would become a bonfire that no madman could extinguish. Sherlock had to hang on. To endure the machinations of Moriarty, more than that he needed to do something here and now to escape. 

What could he do? Engage Moriarty? Enrage the madman? He couldn’t risk pushing the bastard too far. Moriarty’s penchant for killing people was well known.

Sherlock opened his eyes to the reality of his situation. 

“Fantastic, our little Sherlock is with us again.” Moriarty’s mocking tone was grating. 

“What can I do to get better treatment from you Moriarty? I am the Snow King and as such should be given proper quarters, sustenance and fresh clothing.” Sherlock stands, his greater height looms over the smaller Magpie King.

“Well, I have been remiss in my treatment of you.” Moriarty says as if he’d just noticed the obvious fact. “I could arrange quarters adjacent to mine if you are so inclined. You would still have to endure being guarded at all times.” Moriarty purses his lips, tilting his head in a suggestive way. “Does the Snow King want to move to better quarters?”

“Yes. That would be my request.” Sherlock states unequivocally. 

(-_-)

After a hot bath, decent food and clean clothes, Sherlock feels human again. He is locked into quarters that, though not luxurious, are a hundred times better that his damp cell in the nether chambers of Moriarty’s vast dungeon.

Being closer to Moriarty will make him more susceptible to his captors amorous attentions. He’s willing to risk those advances for the chance at escape. Now he must bide his time and play the willing captive. The door of his room opening tells him he will not have to wait long. Luckily, it is only a page pushing a cart of food. 

The food is simple. A tankard of mead is set on the cart as well. Sherlock eats small portions of the food and sips at the mead.

It is then that his head starts to spin. He causes himself to throw up the noxious substance. Crawling away from the expelled liquid and food. 

Moriarty enters with his henchmen. The tall blonde is absence. 

“Oh my, have you taken ill from our good food?” Moriarty comes to sit on the bed. “I was hoping that we could play some games. Have some fun. Do a bit of nasty.” 

Sherlock is sick again. Pulling himself up from the floor to a sitting position. He glares at Moriarty.

“You are as afflicted as they say.” Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I take it trust is out of the question now.”

“You can trust me.” Moriarty croons. “I’m always a bad, bad man. Aren’t I boys?” The henchmen laugh on cue and stand back from the door so that their leader can exit. “I’ll be back Sherlock. I want you begging for my touch.”

The door closes and the lock is engaged. Sherlock lets his body relax back to the floor. This was never going to be easy. Now he couldn’t trust that any of the food or drink wasn’t tainted. What to do? His stomach wasn’t happy, making the rest of his day miserable.

(-_-)

“I was looking for John Watson.” The tall, blonde man said and started toward John. 

There was a flash of metal as he pushed forward with his right hand. John grabbed the blondes forward hand and using the blonde’s own momentum, pulled him down in the direction he was already going. As he fell forward John shoved his elbow hard into the blonde’s kidney. (He would pee blood for weeks.) As the blonde writhed on the floor, John stepped hard on his ankle, breaking it easily. The blonde screamed, rolling into a tight little ball of pain. 

The commotion brought the palace guards running. John stood over the blonde, not even out of breath. 

“Take this rubbish to the jail cells.” John commands.

Seeing what John had wrought, how devastated his enemy was, the guards rushed to do his bidding. Those same guards tell tales of warrior Watson. Who’s cunning and capacity to subdue a man who is larger, stronger and armed without breaking a sweat; traveled throughout the land. The people were bolstered by John’s presence. The Champion of the Snow King would bring him home. They would unite behind this brave warrior. Londinium would not be surrendered to the Magpie King.

(-_-)

“Lestrade, what is your opinion of John Watson?” Mycroft asked of his commander. 

“Honestly, Mycroft, I think we have a rare opportunity. John Watson could help us take down the long time threat of James Moriarty. He’s not the simple man he appears. His military knowledge is much more intense than I’ve ever known.”

“Is there a hope of rescuing Sherlock?” Mycroft holds himself still, worried that the news will be negative.

“I think with John on our side, all things are possible.” Lestrade claps Mycroft’s shoulder in hearty camaraderie. He laughs and his laughter is contagious.

Mycroft, not one to flaunt his human side, or let down his defensive walls, did venture a warm smile. Lestrade is more than his commander. He is friend and confidant. A brother, not of blood, but happenstance.

(-_-)

Lestrade, Mycroft and John were viewing the blonde in his cell. Several of the dungeon guards had chained the prisoner to the wall so that the Fortress apothecary could set his broken ankle. 

“Do we know who this is?” John asked. 

“That, John, is Bastian Moran. Right hand man and bed mate to Moriarty.” Lestrade explained.

“Any chance of doing a hostage exchange?” John is curious.

“No, unfortunately, Moriarty will discard anyone who isn’t useful any more. You might as well have killed him and he knows it. What ever value he had as an assassin is now forfeit.” Mycroft states coldly. 

“Then we move forward with our overarching plan. Our first cooperative meeting will be this evening gentlemen. I suggest we all get some rest before we have to tackle it.” Lestrade and Mycroft turned and left.  
(-_-)

Bastian Moran is feeling a bit foggy. The extreme pain in his back and ankle is so far away now that he can barely feel it. Opening his eyes, he sees the man that hurt him and he moves as far back from that visage as the chains binding him will allow. 

“Tell me.” John’s voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts like razors against Bastian’s nerves. “I want to know everything there is to know about your Moriarty. You know what I’m capable of. So let’s not play games shall we?”

Moran, taller, blonder and very much an assassin of the highest order; buckles under John’s superior abilities. Opening his mouth in small increments, he bled forth knowledge. Knowing that no one was on his side any more. He was dead to Moriarty. His life is in the hands of this man, John Watson. A man not unlike himself, and yet nothing like him at all.

(-_-)

John stood with Lestrade and Mycroft before the assemblage of city state Royals, their entourages and commanders. Lestrade and Mycroft made their introductions and then adjourned to their seats. There was a general rustling of movement of many bodies as well as the clearing of many throats.

“We have called this meeting to discuss the return of the Snow King to his family and to, once and for all, bring the menace that is Moriarty down. He has been a peripheral threat since he coerced his position from his rightful king; he is a usurper and a fraud. All of you have experienced small intrusions upon your lands, there is no doubt about his motivations. We must unite now to defeat him. To remove him from the landscape of this great assembly of city states.” 

John’s normally soft voice, carries easily to the men and women assembled. A collective acknowledgment of his statement sounds in the great hall. 

“Last night the commanders of all states came together to frame a plan of action with auxiliary plans to cover other contingencies. We, collectively, will do this. We did not exclude any from this conference. Everyone was invited. Many chose not to attend. Commanders of royal guards were all present and I believe that we came to a very definitive and cohesive path forward.”

“Communications will be of the utmost importance. Each city state will provide and coordinate reindeer and horse out riders that will be in continuous motion. To keep us all connected. I would ask everyone to adjourn to their camps to discuss these plans. We will reconvene as soon as I’ve heard from everyone. Thank you, Sirs and Madams.”

John left the dais as discussions began in earnest.

The Royals were taken aback. They had come thinking that the Winter King would demand complete control over all aspects of the campaign. They were prepared for contentious arguments. They went back to their camps to listen to their commanders. To find the plans sound and well thought out. Everyone was astounded and quite pleased. 

(-_-)

Lestrade comes into John’s quarters to find him packing a travel bag. 

“What’s this?” He says perplexed. 

“The plans are in motion. Nothing will stop it now.” John drew on his winter coat.

“But we need you now more than ever. You’re the man with the fantastic plan.” Lestrade was almost pleading.

“I have to rescue Sherlock, Greg. He has been Moriarty’s prisoner for far too long.” John stares into Greg’s eyes and Greg can see the steel in John’s spine and vengeance in his aspect.”

“It’s only been days. He’s stronger than he appears, John.” Lestrade isn’t sure that he can convince John.

John stops what he’s doing. Facing Lestrade, he takes a deep breath. “I am afraid Greg. I’ve interviewed Moran. Moriarty wants to devastate Sherlock. His mind, his body. I can’t let that happen.” 

“Okay, then let me come with you.” Greg offers.

“I would like that, Greg, but you are vital to the over all plan. You are the commander of the Londinium city state. Face it you are indispensable. Can you have a sturdy reindeer saddled up for me?”

“Reginald was left behind when Sherlock was kidnapped. He’s strong and knows the area between here and Éire. Sherlock was always observing the borders between the two city states, leery of Moriarty’s attentions.

“Yeah, Reginald will do nicely.” John says shouldering his pack. 

Greg comes forward and embraces John in a friendly hug. John returns his hug and there passes a companionable silence between them.

“You bring him home, John and don’t you dare get killed in the process. That is non-negotiable.” Greg smiles his best smart aleck grin.

“Yes, Sir.” John gives a formal military salute. 

They walk together to the stables and find Reginald saddled and ready to go. Tossing his antlers and pounding the ground with his hoof.

“It’s like he knows you’re going to get Sherlock.” Greg states. “He’s one of the smartest of the reindeer in the stable. Leave it to Sherlock to find the best. He found you and you ARE the best thing to happen to Londinium and to Sherlock.”

John mounts the reindeer that is ready to go. Holding the reins tight, keeping Reginald in control.

“Fight the good fight, Greg. Stay the course. Sherlock and I will be depending on your actions.” John gives Reginald his head and the reindeer pushes forward to Éire.

“May the fates be in your favor.” Greg proclaims as he watches the reindeer and rider disappear into the beginnings of a storm that is letting light snow fall.


	4. The Distant Dark Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's BAMF. John's a sexy...well you get the idea. John to the rescue. John is such an outstanding human being, but we all knew that. Sherlock is being mistreated by Moriarty. Moriarty is a dick and Reginald is a reindeer of exceptional merit.

Sherlock finds he is not alone. The many people under Moriarty’s tyranny are not willing players. The page that brings his food is not observed so tightly on his second entry. A small portion of safe food and drink are sequestered in a place where only Sherlock can see it. Sherlock nods his thanks and feels good that there are people on his side. He will make it. He will see John again. Holding on to hope is his only option.

Moriarty makes an appearance that night. His blonde lover never comes back. There is a new paramour, but Sherlock knows this one is only temporary. He lacks the sinister soullessness that the last blonde had.

“So Snow King, how is your icy heart now that you are in more comfortable surroundings? I was hoping that I would find you with a more felicitous attitude?”

Sherlock touches the rough material of his clean shirt. “To be frank, I find the idea of a possible liaison with you, Moriarty, leaves me deeply nauseous.” Sherlock leers from under his long eye lashes at the shorter man.

“I could force that liaison. Quite easily.” Moriarty nods at his thugs and they come at Sherlock. Grabbing him by his arms, they force him to the floor in front of Moriarty. The shorter man takes his finger sticks it in his own mouth and proceeds to smear his saliva over Sherlock’s full lips.

Sherlock attempts to pull his head away, but rough hands grab his hair and hold him in place. So Sherlock snaps at Moriarty’s finger. Nearly biting into his tender flesh. Moriarty slaps him so hard, the blow knocking him back. A bit dazed, Sherlock blinks, trying to focus.

Moriarty has one of his heavies hit Sherlock in the abdomen. Knocking the air from his lungs. 

“Try that again and I’ll have those pretty teeth of yours yanked out of your head.” Moriarty is livid. 

There is a hesitant knock on the door.

“Enter. And it had better be eminently important.” Moriarty snaps.

The young page enters submissively. “Mi Lord, your lieutenants request your presence.”

“Tell the palace commander to handle this matter.” Moriarty growls getting angrier by the minute.

“Twas he who sent me in.” The page begins to shake visibly.

“For the love...” Moriarty storms out of the room, his bulky minions follow him like the faithful mongrels that they are. 

“What is happening, lad?” Sherlock asks the page as the young man looks warily into his eyes.

“Word come, Mi Lord. There is movement along all the borders. But there is nothing out beyond the wester lands. All wilderness. It is said that demons come to the Distant Dark. That the world ends tonight.”

Sherlock takes heart. Movement is good. Yes, very good.

(-_-)

Mycroft knows that on the onset, John’s plan is simple, yet there are inner complexities that hopefully Moriarty will not see coming. Everything was set in motion the night before. Much depends on the city states working as one. Can they be trusted to carry out their individual missions? 

“Greg, how are the riders doing? Do we have word yet from anyone?”

“The outriders are in motion as well as the border people that we set up. Everything looks as good as it can be. I hope John is okay? Thankfully, he took Reginald on his quest. That reindeer is one of the best we have.” Greg rests his weight upon the table filled with maps that is set before him.

“I still think it was foolhardy of him to attempt a rescue alone.” Mycroft says as he presses his hands across his tired eyes. “He should be at the head of this undertaking.”

“That’s the brilliance of his strategy. It requires all to engage. Even if we were to lose him. The many will prevail against the one, despicable Moriarty.”

Mycroft takes some solace in his friends words. He fears that his brother is already lost. Moriarty is vicious and should have been dealt with long ago. There being no one to stand against him; he’d dug in like a parasitic tick, refusing to release the people he is supposed to protect. Now holding them hostage to his cruel caprices.

(-_-)

Maintaining a grueling pace John and Reginald approach the castle keep of Moriarty. Once called the Western Twilight Towers, now in whispers people referred to it as the Distant Dark. Many of the people left the region when Moriarty took control, seeking asylum in the surrounding city states.

Moran had given information to John so that he now has a map of the keep with all its secrets revealed in his head. John stops Reginald and pats the reindeer’s neck in gratitude.

“We’ve made good time, old son. Now to find your master and leave before the major thrust takes place.” 

Entering into a back entrance that is partially concealed by a false wall, John doesn’t want to tether Reginald there. If something should go wrong. The animal should be free to find his way home eventually. There are provisions for the beast at least. “Here’s some grain to fill your empty spaces.” John comments as he removes the saddle and bridal from his charge. “Hopefully, I’ll be a short while. So try to wait for me, Reggie.”

The animal shakes his head with its impressive antlers as if to answer John’s request in the affirmative.

John enters into the keep. Moran stated that Sherlock was being kept in the prisoner cells below the city. That is his destination. He finds many lost souls beneath the city. Strangely, there are no guards.

“Where are the gate keepers?” John asks as he finds the keys to the cells. Opening one cell, admonishing the inhabitant to release everyone.

“All the guards were called away, sir. We’ve been left alone, fearing that we’d die here. No one knowing where we where.” As more and more people are freed they surround John, thanking him profusely. Praising his life and blessing his progeny for eternity. 

Sherlock is not among them, but he does find Sherlock’s riding leathers. 

He has to shout to be heard among the many voices. “The man who was wearing this clothing. Does anyone know where he was taken?”

“Taken up to Moriarty’s wing of the keep he was. Sadly, we may never see him again.” One of the old women speaks up.

“Everyone should exit the keep and take cover in the outer city buildings. Things are about to happen...” John’s words are interrupted by a series of explosions.

Shouts and screams of distress begin and everyone heads for the exits in a panicked rush. 

John turns towards Moriarty’s wing of the keep. He hurries now that his destination is secure.

(-_-)

The page turns to leave Sherlock’s room. “It is not my duty to lock your door, Mi Lord.” The young man says conspiratorially as he heads out of the door quickly.

Sherlock gathers a few things into his vest pockets, holding his bruised stomach, he moves to the open door. Slowly, he checks out the hallway. 

The explosions rock the Distant Dark. Sound and vibration accosting the senses of everyone inside its walls.

Inhabitants scramble to get away from whatever pending doom that’s approaching. Sherlock moves slowly with the scampering crowd toward whatever exit there is. Sherlock slumps as he moves. His injury slows him as he tries to blend in. 

So he is startled when Moriarty’s mongrels pluck him from his escape, shoving him against the nearest wall. Moriarty appears from out of the shadows, an unnatural simulation of a smile upon his craven lips.

“Leaving so very soon.” Moriarty croons. “And here I thought that we were getting along so well.” He sings like a mad loon. “I hadn’t even gotten to the good parts yet. You can’t possibly leave now; when all hell is breaking loose.”

Sherlock stares into the dark eyes of his captor. “You resemble a man, but I know what you really are. A vicious, cruel, deviant who lacks any semblance of humanity. Corrupter and miscreant; there is nothing that redeems you. You have never had a soul.”

“Such a mouth on you.” Moriarty scratches a line down Sherlock’s left cheek with his ornate dagger. Blood flowing from the damaged flesh. Then he takes the blade and presses it over Sherlock’s heart. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to have you.”

Several more explosions happen outside. Moriarty’s mongrels aren’t pleased with the ruckus. 

“Mi Lord, we should flee, before the keep is taken.” The mongrel holding Sherlock’s right arm is getting twitchy.

Moriarty back hands the man’s face. The force of the blow knocking the man backwards. “You dare to dictate my actions?” Moriarty advances on the larger man, who actually cringes away from his master.

Sherlock sees his chance and yanks his other arm from the grasp of the second mongrel. Sprinting down the hallway in the direction that everyone else has taken.

“Don’t just watch him run, you bastards. Stop HIM.” Moriarty screams.

Sherlock is running at full speed. The hallways are nearly deserted, so he has to guess the best direction to take. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock stops abruptly. He’d know that voice; those tenor tones. “John!!” He runs towards the sound of John’s voice.

“SHERLOCK.” 

While the two run towards each other. Moriarty’s men are honing in on them as well.

Sherlock comes upon John, he is overjoyed. Hugging John to him. What John sees when they come together is Sherlock covered with blood from an injury. He is bent over protecting his abdomen and is paler than John has ever seen him. John hugs him back then draws Sherlock back to view him better.

“What have those bastards done to you?” John is seething with anger.

Before Sherlock can answer, Moriarty’s mongrels are coming at them. 

John presses Sherlock behind him. Facing the monsters who are grinning like the fools they are.

John appears to have no weapon. And he’s so much smaller than they are. They start laughing as they approach him. 

The first monster lunges at John with his dagger drawn. John grips the man’s hand and twists the knife backwards to impale the monster as he pulls him down to the floor; onto his own knife. The monster hits the floor with a horrendous grunt. A pool of dark blood immediately begins to engulf the limp body.

Crouching like a taut spring. John crazy stares at the remaining mongrel. He is ready to completely annihilate this bull of a man.

Bull man is not ready to die and turns tail and runs as fast as he can in the direction that doesn’t have the crazy man in it.

Sherlock is leaning against the wall behind John. He can not believe what he’s just seen. John is fantastic, incredible, so much danger wrapped up in soft leathers of a simple soldier. Sherlock finds his heart melting. The Snow King slides down the wall he is leaning on as his legs give out on him. 

John is at his side assessing the damage to Sherlock. Seeing the profuse bleeding is from a facial wound. They always bleed badly. Then he pulls open Sherlock’s shirt and sees a large abdominal bruise. This could be superficial or indicative of deeper damage. John recognizes that he has to get Sherlock to a safe place where he can treated.

“You were phenomenal.” Sherlock says as he looks adoringly at John. He strokes Johns face.

John can see that the Snow King is deeply, devoutly, delightfully in love with him. John kisses him. A chaste kiss that gives the promise of so much more than Sherlock had ever thought to experience.

“We’ve got to get you out of here. Things are about to go very badly for Mister Moriarty. Can you walk?” 

John helps to lift Sherlock up and they head towards Reginald’s hiding place.

(-_-)

The Distant Dark is deserted so they make good time. Sherlock is showing signs of shock, as John takes more and more of his weight as they move along.

Reginald, the heavens bless him, is where John left him. John sets Sherlock on the ground and tacks up the large reindeer. Sensing the agitation in his companions, Reginald paws the ground but doesn’t interfere with John’s activities.

With almost no effort at all John gets Sherlock up into the saddle. John can tell that Sherlock is under weight and makes a mental note to do something about that as soon as possible.

“You’re not leaving now?” Moriarty dramatically intones. “The parties just begun. The keep is taken with an almost bloodless precision. The surrounding city states have amassed on all our borders. My army of mercenaries is dispatched. The ball-less bastards.” Moriarty fingers the handle of his ornate dagger. The smug look on his face doesn’t look distressed at all.

“You are beaten, Moriarty. Take my advice, surrender and face the wrath of the people you have tormented and tortured. Your reign of death and destruction is over.” John commands.

“I saw what you did to my man. You are obviously not someone I can over power. I won’t try.” Moriarty sing songs his last words.

John advances on Moriarty. He can’t turn his back on this viper. Putting him down seems the best decision.

“Reginald!” Sherlock’s cry of warning is sharp. 

Yet John doesn’t turn, he keeps his eyes on the snake in his view who has a deadly gleam in his black soulless eyes.

There is commotion behind John. Hearing Reginald trampling on someone and that someone is screaming bloody hell. Sherlock’s voice is urging Reginald on. John remains focused on Moriarty. 

“This ends now.” John announces with finality. 

Moriarty purses his lips. “Are you going to kill me in cold blood? I have but this small dagger to defend myself.” He tilts his head at an odd angle to view the goings on behind John. “Your reindeer is quite savage.” Moriarty points out.

“Not nearly as savage as you will find me. I am champion to Sherlock Holmes. Witnesses have testified that you and your men did abduct and hold him against his will. Upon viewing his person, I see that he has been mistreated and injured. Stand now and receive your judgment.”

Moriarty grins, knowing that John is a good man. Not one to murder, maim a little maybe, but surely to timid to kill. His thought is cut short.

John draws his flintlock from it’s hidden place, takes deadly aim and shoots Moriarty in the forehead. The ball shatters the skull as it enters the brain. At such close proximity the velocity of the ball goes straight through and out the back of the skull sending bone and brain matter flying in the direct of the blow.

Moriarty drops gracelessly. His crumpled remains lie in a gradually widening pool of his dark blood.

John turns immediately to find Sherlock still astride Reginald. Apparently, one of Moriarty’s minions had attempted to pull Sherlock from Reginald’s back and it hadn’t ended well for him. The reindeer had kicked and trampled the man to the point that he was little more than a pool of flesh and blood on the ground and spattered all over the triumphant reindeer’s legs.

“Why didn’t he do that when you were kidnapped?” John’s a bit confused.

“Moriarty had too many men. I knew they would kill him. So I told him to go home. He would have died protecting me. As you would have.” Sherlock looks to his champion. His eyes glisten with gathering moisture.

John comes up to Reginald’s side. Caressing the animals neck. “Lots of oats and apples for you when we get home.” Holding onto the saddle he easily swings himself up behind Sherlock. Taking the weight of the exhausted taller man as he leans back.

“Home, apple.” Sherlock says. The animal somehow sensing that his master is not quite right; enters into a long but gentle stride that will get them all home quickly and comfortably.

(-_-)

The city states had united against a common enemy. Moriarty had been feared and despised by all. His demise was celebrated and John deemed a welcomed hero. His strategy had lead to victory with the smallest amount of injuries and no deaths on the side of the city states. 

They had never acted as one before. The reigning kings came together in council and using John’s ideas, set in motion an accord between them all. Asking John if he would be inclined to be the honored crown’s chancellor. Giving him powers to begin an interconnected healing system. As everyone was quite impressed with the work that he had set in motion at Londinium. 

John was uncertain if he wanted the great honor and extreme responsibility. Sherlock was concerned that John’s wanderlust was rearing it’s head again. That he may want to leave to find further adventure. Yet he was also over-the-moon with pride that his champion had done so much to change not only Londinium, but single-handedly united the bickering city states into a more cohesive unit. Lastly, Sherlock knew that he’d found the only man he could ever stand beside and lay next to.

“John, you don’t have to accept the chancellorship if you’d find it too much. Surely, you could be happy here with me.” Sherlock felt his whole world depended upon John’s next words. 

John sat next to Sherlock in their cozy day room which connected their adjoining rooms. Though John didn’t frequent his rooms much anymore. 

“This is my home now.” He spoke with merriment in his eyes. “I belong here, with you. You great gamble of a man. I will accept the chancellorship. Gathering a council of good women and men to assist me in this work. Delegating power to the people we serve will ease my way considerably.”

“How can you be so wise, intelligent and such a phenomenal sexy beast all at the same time?” Sherlock felt the tension leave his body as he beams his best smile at John. Taking John into his long-limbed embrace. 

“I fear that you will have to marry me, to make me an honorable husband.” John spoke softly into his lover’s ear. “Though I’ve heard that the Snow King has a rather cold heart.” 

“There is a spring unfolding in his winter heart.” Sherlock kisses John’s tantalizing lips. “Soon the ice will be but a memory. The flood waters of love and lust will bring you to the safe harbors of my life.” Sherlock can’t quit smiling.

There ensued a serial number of kisses, each more relevant than the rest. The Snow King, good at his word married the Crown’s Chancellor and his own champion. They honeymooned in what used to be the Distant Dark and was now returned to the Western Twilight Towers. With the help of its good people many wrongs were righted. Since the old king had left no heirs. It was decided that the people would just have to take up the mantle of authority and play at making their City State work without one. They appeared to up to the task. 

(-_-)

“Talk about a working honeymoon.” John flopped onto their huge bed, exhausted but feeling just a bit frisky. 

“Marcus.” Sherlock spoke the name of their mutual page. The young man who had served Sherlock in the Distant Dark appeared as if by magic. 

“Yes, Sherlock.” John had instituted a less formal arrangement of behavior when not on royal business in public.

“Can you pop down to kitchen and have Lydia sent up a light meal for John and I?”

“Right away.” The young man turned to quickly complete his assignment.

“So now that you’ve brought about world peace, deposed a tyrannical madman and captured the heart of the Snow King. What is left for the Crown’s Chancellor and Winter Champion to do?” Sherlock is ever seeking information to squirrel away in his massive Mind Palace.

“I believe it is time to spend a life time loving the bloody Snow King. Who I truly think we will have to rename.” John places his hands behind his head to cradle his skull. Opening his legs on the bed in a highly suggestive move.

“And what shall we call the Snow King?” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow in anticipation.

“Weirdo King.” John ventures.

Sherlock waggles his eyebrows in disinterest.

“Rainbow King.” John gives Sherlock his best lustful look.

Sherlock smirks and lowers his head in a silent giggle.

“The Afterglow King.” John thrusts gently with his inviting hips. 

Sherlock can no longer resist the unmistakable charms of his champion. He smothers the shorter man with his longer, lanky body.

Marcus will get an eyeful when he returns with their food. By now he is used to the memorable sex that he is exposed to on a regular basis. It is stimulating, informative and thoroughly mind blowing. Life in the Crystal Fortress is ever a risky venture and an oddly satisfying one.


End file.
